apology

As I blunder through
Our variegated garden
wondering whether or not I’m man enough for you,
I miss an opportunity to defend your honor.
your strength,
your will.
 
I have gone to seed.
 
you would defend me against anyone.
Would not wait for context or evidence.
If you should falsely proclaim against a perceived slight,
so be it.

I’ve become incautious.

You are “a lot” as you say,
which at times may seem too much.
You don’t need me to define who you are.
You don’t beg my praise or permission.
You simply sacrifice to relieve the sting
of our borderline poverty
with a sense of purpose
akin to the peripheral last brushstrokes on a masterwork,
shooing phantom eraser crumbs from your sketchbook.
There is no part of me that wants you to need me,
to depend on me
if that were so, first,
we would be fucked,
and second, you wouldn’t be a lot.

You would be diminished; abbreviated.
intact but not static
a canvas that hides false starts
covered by strange experiments,
finished with an attempt to satisfy
your blinding curiosity.

Never once have I felt on trial for your setbacks.

This is the girl I fell in love with,
the woman I married,
the human I admire the most:
When she’s on, it’s a blessing.
Yellow is brighter,
the nights are cooler.
Then the wheel spins counter,
pulverizing ephemeral thrill
deep into despair.
I’ve learned to detect the migration of her soul,
to respect its turns and to look on it with a sense of wonder
and self-preservation.
I know she is dangerous.
I’m glad she is dangerous.
I’m cognizant of the associated risk.

I stand in awe.
your discipline, your fierce independence.
I fold like a warm blanket
in the embrace
you reserve especially for me.
I am sorry I left you alone,
my dearest partner of greatness.